There's no such thing as normal,
no such thing as fate,
no such thing as day and night,
no such thing as straight.

Real is breath, food, water, soul.
Real is death, crude, slaughter, tolls.
Real is out there, open, ready to drink,
Real is inside the mind, all that you think

Forgetting what's real we stare straight at a box,
as birds fly north to south the pattern never unlocks.
False importance blocks thought,
as imposed ideas force retorts
at an allied enemy whose similarity we forgot.
The cycle of hate leeches the
unguarded brain. Over. And Over.
And over again